


Advent XXX

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok. Next to last of the main Christmas material. </p><p>I honestly do not know if I'll be able to post anything tomorrow. Holiday, you know. I will try. But if I can't--this is a good place to pause before our quick run to New Year's.</p><p>Mushy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XXX

Lestrade woke in the depth of the night, and realized the bed beside him was cold and empty. He stirred and mumbled his regret, mind surfacing slowly to work out where his lover had gone.

Loo? He listened and heard no sound—no movement, no water works, nothing. Nor was Mike in the room anywhere—he knew the sound of his breath, the controlled fall of his feet, the very beat of his heart in the darkness.

Out, then—called away in some sense. A phone call? Lestrade, like many people who live part of their life on call, could turn off the part of his brain that heard calls come in—otherwise he’d have been woken over and over by sounds around him when he wasn’t on call, wasn’t the one required to get up and go to the scene. Here, at Mike’s bloody big mansion for Christmas, he wasn’t on call, and he’d sleep through his own ring tones, much less those on Mike’s phone. So, maybe Mike had got a call, and left.

He slid his hand over to Mike’s side of the bed. Sheets were cool, if not freezing. He’d been gone more than a quarter hour or so. ( _Shut up, Sherlock_ , he said to the phantom detective snarking at him from the back of his mind. _I was a damn fine detective even before you showed, you bloody vain prat. I can deduce the odd truth myself, you know…_ ) So. If gone for more than a quarter hour, the call was almost certainly important. It might even have been enough to call Mike away.

He sighed, feeling a chill melancholy. If Mike was gone, tomorrow was going to be depressing as hell. No sooner engaged than separated, and trapped in this blasted super-sized prestige-palace on his own with Sherlock and John and Mike’s family and far too few of them people he was close to. He wished he’d asked to invite Sally—but she had her own family to spend Christmas with. He wished he’d suggested inviting Molly—but that might have been uncomfortable with Janine coming.

He just wished Mike were in bed with him.

He smiled to himself, thinking how he’d curl himself around his lover, and how Mike would grumble and rearrange himself so that contact was maintained—but limited. Mike only liked close cuddles in small and carefully rationed amounts. He grumbled so sweetly, though, and worked so hard to keep contact in some small way—held hands, ankles hooked around each other, backs pressed close together. Something to show Mike loved him and knew he was there and was glad of it.

His lover. His fiancé. Soon to be his husband.

Not where he’d thought his life would end up. Never in a million years. Not even an option a few years ago, in so very many ways—legal, emotional, practical.

He thought about that night and the walk out to the tree. Mike had kept his arm linked with Lestrade’s own. They’d trudged through the snow, leaving clear footprints. The snow had melted slightly and refrozen, leaving a crisp, brittle crust on top, like the caramelized sugar on the crème brulee Mike loved so much and resisted with such fierce dedication. They’d reached the tree and stood under the lace of bare branches, looking up at the stars caught in the net. Orion was caught, entangled.

“Monocerous,” Mycroft had said, pointing up.

“The rhinoceros?” Lestrade had asked, uncertain.

Mike had given a dry chuckle. “No—the unicorn.”

“Really? Why not say so?”

“Tradition.”

“No need to sound so smug.”

“I’m a traditional man,” Mycroft had said. “I like tradition.”

The statement had hung in the air between them. Lestrade had felt the little box in his pocket and felt his pulse drum frantically as he gathered himself to ask and be answered.

_“He’s traditional,” Sherlock had said. “He’s conservative. He’s restrained. He’s not dead. It has to be traditional and quiet, but distinctive.”_

_Lestrade had looked at him frantically. “Sherlock—I don’t do this. Hell, I’d be happy with just knowing he’d said yes. He doesn’t have to wear a ring.”_

_“He’s going to give you something, you know—after he agrees,” Sherlock had said, darkly. “If he agrees. But if he does, he’ll give you something to keep with you to mark the commitment. Do you really wish to do less?”_

_Of course he didn’t. But he was a man who decorated his walls with posters and commonplace prints. He dressed himself off the rack at commonplace stores, and chose commonplace styles while he was at it. He drove a common car, and while he did like to look natty when his pocket could afford it and the event made it appropriate, he knew his idea of natty ended miles before Mycroft Holmes’ idea of natty even began. How was he supposed to buy a ring? A traditional ring._

_“He won’t want an engagement ring anyway,” Lestrade had said. “Traditional engagement ring is a woman’s ring.”_

_Sherlock gave him a look that could have cooked an entire meal of fish and chips and still sizzled dangerously after the food was served. “Do show some creative initiative, Gaston.”_

_“Greg.”_

_Sherlock had grinned a wicked, vulpine grin. “If this works the way you want, I’ll be able to give up the entire matter and just call you ‘blud.’”_

_“Lucky me.”_

_“Quite. Now, come along, Glottis. We’ve got shopping to do.”_

_Sherlock had dragged him over parts of London even Lestrade hadn’t know existed. Antique stores. Stalls in the Bermondsey Antiques Market. Little private studios tenanted by wild-eyed hippie-dippy artists with strange leather vests and old-fashioned clothing decorated with cogs and gears. Upmarket stores that made Lestrade break out in a cold sweat._

_“Keep up, Lestrade, keep up. We’ve got more places to go and more things to see.”_

_“No, wait…”_

_Sherlock came back to stand beside him, frowning into a small consignment display of estate jewelry in a larger store. “Which?” he asked, looking down._

_“That,” Lestrade said, touching the glass over the ring. “The big one.”_

_“Hnnn,” Sherlock said. “You’d have to have it sized. And it wouldn’t go on his wedding ring finger.”_

_“No,” Lestrade said. “Not supposed to.” He gazed down at the ring._

_It was gold, with a heavy Victorian setting: a man’s ring, weighty and dignified, holding a single large cabochon stone. The metal of the ring was deeply stamped with the sort of brocade-ish leaf pattern common on much Victorian jewelry, but superbly done. It was a dignified setting, not so ornate as to be unmanly or distracting, but not unimaginatively plain either. It was the stone, though, that had stopped Lestrade cold. Blue—deep, deep, deep blue, almost navy—a clear, dark stone marked with a six-pointed star shimmering inside._

_Sherlock hummed under his breath, then gestured for the floor manager. “That,” he said. “We want to see it.”_

_The man started to blather something, but before he’d got through an entire sentence Sherlock had turned, glared viciously, and said, “Shut up. You’re already about to say something stupid. Don’t.”_

_The manager had scowled, but brought out the ring as Lestrade tried to scold his “trusty guide.”_

_“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock had said, and hefted the ring in the palm of his hand. “Sapphire,” he said, after consideration. “Natural, too—there are flaws. Slight, but enough to make the star waver a bit.”_

_“That’s bad?”_

_“No, not really,” Sherlock said, absently. “Too perfect and it’s probably a synthetic, these days. This looks like an Austrian stone. Very dark, and edging very slightly toward purple. Still, a very clean, pure blue on the whole and incredible saturation.” He held it up and considered the ring in the light. “Nice work. Comparative low karat gold, but intentional and durable. Good design choice. Large—you’ll have to have it sized.”_

_“Bet I don’t,” Lestrade said. “He can wear it on his pointer finger, yeah?”_

_Sherlock hummed contemplatively. “Just a touch showy.”_

_“Yeah,” Lestrade said, laughing. “Just a touch. Old fashioned, traditional, not over the top—but just a little bit showy. Just a little bit bossy. Just like those suits, right?”_

_Sherlock had barked with sudden laughter._

_Lestrade tried to take the ring from him, but Sherlock pulled it away. “No. I want to see it in the light, and I want to talk to your jeweler.” He looked sharply at the floor manager. “Not you. You’re no use to do much but ring it up on the register. I want the man or woman you hide at the jeweler’s bench in the back. The one who knows what’s what.” He glanced at Lestrade. “Wait here.” Then off he went, sloping through the store, stroppy and snotty and carrying The Ring._

_Lestrade had looked at the little girl running the counter. “Well,” he said with a stiff grin._

_She grinned back as uneasily._

_“What’s it likely to set me back?” he asked._

_“Couple thousand pounds,” she said. “At least. Old. Good stone. Heavy gold.”_

_He sighed. “That’s the end of that, then,” he said. “Out of my price range.”_

_“You can get things that look a bit like it,” she said. “Modern pieces and synthetic stones. Hollow-cast settings. It all brings down the price.”_

_Lestrade shook his head. “It’s for the kind of man who’d care that it was fake,” he said. “And it’s supposed to be an engagement ring. You don’t give someone a fake as an engagement ring.”_

_She’d made a sad sound, agreeing with him. “No,” she said, softly. “No—it really isn’t right.”_

_“I’ll have to find something I can afford,” he said. “Something simpler.”_

_She looked skeptical._

_He felt skeptical. All over London they’d trod, uptown and down. East End in little pawn shops, and West End in posh designer jewelers. One ring he’d found. Just one._

_Sherlock came out with a box in his hand. “Here,” he said. “It’s good. Get it.”_

_“Can’t afford it,” Lestrade had muttered. “Girl told me it’s a couple thou. I don’t have that kind of money saved up—and I’m not getting Mike a ring on credit. It’s tacky.”_

_Sherlock grabbed his wrist. “Get it,” he said. Then, refusing to meet Lestrade’s eye, he said, “I will not say this again—I stand in your debt. I do not mean that merely metaphorically. I owe you.”_

_“You can’t pay for my ring,” Lestrade argued._

_“No, but I can repay you in part—a first installment. And you can pay for your ring.”_

_“Sherlock—“_

_Sherlock met his eyes, then, his own blazing. “if you dare turn this into a fight, I swear I will tell Sally and your team the entire story, from your first attempted date to this last event.” Then, more quietly and gently, “Don’t be difficult, Grover.”_

_Lestrade scowled. “I can go as high as one grand.”_

_“And I can make up the difference,” Sherlock said. “I owe you more.”_

_Lestrade struggled, hesitated, and sighed. “It’s the right ring, isn’t it?”_

_Sherlock nodded. “It’s good, it’s handsome, it’s real, and it’s right—he’ll wear it, and not only because you gave it to him.”_

_Lestrade nodded. A half-hour later they walked out of the store with the ring in Lestrade’s pocket. It weighed him down and anchored him right up until they stood beneath the tree with Orion and a unicorn trapped in its crown._

“Mike?” he said…only to realize Mycroft was looking down, drawing something from his own pocket. Then his lover’s eyes met his, first puzzled—then laughing. He opened his palm and showed a small box wrapped in ornate gold-embossed paper that shone in the moonlight and starlight.

Lestrade held out his own hand, black-gloved, with the fat little box on it.

They smiled at each other.

“May I take your answer as given?” Mycroft had said.

Lestrade had nodded. “You?”

“Absolutely.”

Then they’d exchanged packages.

“Unwrap them out here?” Lestade asked.

“Might be wiser to wait until we’re indoors and can’t loose them in the snow.”

“Might be more romantic to see them by moonlight.”

Mycroft had nodded. They’d stripped off their gloves and pulled away the wrapping paper, stuffing it in their pockets.

Lestrade looked at the fat, ancient watch on his palm. “Wow.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” Mycroft said, shyly. “You don’t have to wear it all the time. But—I wanted you to have it.”

Lestrade nodded.

Mycroft drew out the ring, and crooned.

“It’s not my grandfather’s,” Lestrade said. “Sherlock helped me find it.” He smiled. “Helped me buy it, too.”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft blinked. “Really?”

“Really.”

He loved the dopey smile that bloomed on Mycroft’s face. He loved just as much now he tried to stamp it down and hide it. “Hmmph,” he said. “It’s not like he doesn’t owe you.”

“Exactly what he said.”

Mycroft blinked. “Really?”

“Really.” He smiled. “Try it on. We decided it would fit on one of your two pointer fingers without resizing. Tell me if I’m right.”

Mycroft slipped it on his left-hand finger and smiled. “Perfect.” He held his hand out, moving it softly so the stone caught the light. He gasped. “Oh. A star….” He paused, then said, warily. “Carborundum. Of some sort. Sapphire? Ruby?”

“Sapphire. Dark. Sherlock says it’s natural and ‘saturated,’ for whatever that’s worth. Midnight blue with a slightly wonky star. Near-perfect but with a bit of a ripple.”

They both looked. In the scant light it looked like jet, and the star shone white in the darkness.

Mycroft looked even sweeter and dopier. “A star,” he said.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said…and didn’t say any of the million poetic things he could have. Instead he just said, “It was the right ring. At least—even Sherlock thought so. Was it? Is it? Were we right?”

Mycroft nodded…and they smiled stupidly at each other again.

“I guess we’re engaged, then?” Lestrade said.

“I suppose we are.”

“When do we set a date?”

Mycroft sniffed. “In our own good time. We shan’t let Mummy bully us, either.” Then he smiled. “Let’s go back,” he said, and twined his arm through Lestrade’s again.

Lestrade slipped the watch into his pocket. “You’ll have to show me how to wear it,” he said…and they walked back to the mansion together.

 

Now Mike was gone—who knew for how long?

Lestrade got out of bed and pulled on the warm, thick robe Mycroft had provided. He pulled one of the room’s armchairs up to the window and looked out across the lawns to the distant tree. A star shone bright overhead.

He thought it might be the east. He wasn’t sure.

A car rolled up and parked in the circular drive. Lestrade sighed—one of those damned black Jaguars. The driver got out, bringing briefcase with him, and started toward the stairs even as the great doors opened in a flash of light.

Mycroft, in his robe, walked down the stairs to the driver, and they talked. Lestrade held his breath. After a few minutes Mycroft accepted the briefcase. Then, to Lestrade’s soaring relief, the driver retreated to the Jag, climbed in—and drove away.

Mycroft stood watching.

He wasn’t leaving. Not now. Maybe not even later. He might spend the day buried in whatever that briefcase contained, and on the phone to people around the world. But he’d do it here.

Lestrade poked and prodded until he found out how to open the window. He swung the casement wide, and leaned out, calling softly, “Hey, Holmes—come on up to bed before you catch your death.”

Mycroft looked up and smiled at him, teeth flashing in the dim false dawn. “Perhaps I shall,” he said.

While he waited for his lover to join him, Lestrade sat in the window and watched the star in the east, and hummed to himself.

_Leave your sheep and leave your lambs—_

_Rise up shepherd and follow._

_Leave your ewes and leave your rams—_

_Rise up shepherd and follow._

_Follow, follow,_

_Follow the star to Bethlehem._

_Follow, follow,_

_Rise up shepherd and follow._

Only tonight the star was on Mycroft’s finger, Bethlehem was a warm bed and a tender lover—and the sheep could look after themselves for a few hours, in recognition of a Christmas miracle.

 

 **Nota Bene:** Only the one song, for this.

 

[Rise Up, Shepherd and Follow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZ2Xs3ScDeQ)


End file.
